


The Past Reacts To Future Events

by afteriwake



Series: WIP Big Bang Accomplishments [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Brother Mycroft, Conversations, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Sherlock, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Music, Mentioned Eurus Holmes, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft's Past, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock's Past, emotional mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-01-04 19:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12175566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: After Sherlock is over his withdrawal from his overdose on the plane, Mycroft decides they need to have a chat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chitarra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chitarra/gifts).



> So a while back, **Chitarra** asked me to write a fic between Sherlock and Mycroft, post-"The Abominable Bride," involving the brothers having a talk about Sherlock's past drug use. I didn't write it before series 4 aired, so this is a little bit different than what she probably expected, but I hope she enjoys it nonetheless.
> 
> A large inspiration for this fic was the fanart “[I’ll bring you home, little brother…](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/136598154738)” by **whimsycatcher** on Tumblr. I have been given permission to include the series here but **DO NOT** repost it without whimsycatcher's explicit permission.
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He was worried about his brother.

That was his normal state, he supposed; almost everything he had done since he was young was for Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t know the depth or the breadth of things that had been done behind the scenes to accommodate him…

To keep him safe.

He had always been thankful Sherlock had forgotten about the incident. His uncle had done what he could to modify Sherlock’s memory, as pliable as it was after the disappearance of his best friend and the terror of the fire. He, of course, remembered everything in crystal clear detail. He remembered being afraid of his sister. He was afraid of her still, to be honest. And he was quite happy that Sherlock had no memory of her or anything really concrete from before the age of six.

But oh, the downsides of it all…

He had been away at university when his mother had called, telling him he needed to come take care of his brother. Of _course_ they couldn’t; his mother was busy with her mathematics, his father was busy with his pursuits of leisure. Even though Musgrave Hall was gone the money they had was still around, and the money meant that they could afford the best facilities to put Sherlock in to take care of his “problem.” But it was up to _him_ to do it. Mummy and Father didn’t want Sherlock to hate _them_ , no, but it was alright if he despised his older brother.

He remembered with crystal clarity finding him in the squat, Sherlock’s school tie around his upper arm and the needle negligently sitting next to him. He wasn’t coherent, lost in a happy heroin daze, but Mycroft knew it would only be horrors ahead when the drug was taken away. He cradled his brother against him as he tried to make sure he would survive the trek out to the automobile waiting. Just to make sure his brother was _alive_ , something his parents couldn’t be bothered with.

And he carefully put the hooded jumper on his brother, knowing even though he was warm to the touch soon enough he would be cold and shaking and sweating. He tried to carry him in his arms but it just didn’t work, and so he took an old familiar position with some prodding on his behalf, letting his brother ride piggyback, Sherlock’s arms draped over his shoulders and his head lolling to his shoulder, leaning against his. He had fonder memories of this position, back when Sherlock was young and carefree, and even when the two of them were a bit more at odds with each other and the world but still had each other's back.

That was only the first time he would have to carry his brother out of a drug den over the next few years.

That was when they made the agreement of the list, when Mycroft watched Sherlock in recovery and knew, deep down, they would be in those positions again. At least if there was a list he could keep his brother alive. That was what his parents wanted, after all; they wanted their darling baby boy alive, but not necessarily well.

But Mycroft would always fight for Sherlock’s health and well-being even if he had to become an Orwellian Big Brother in all senses of the word.

And yet here they were again, and he had failed. Not only had he failed to keep Sherlock sober not once but twice, but he had just barely kept Sherlock alive. He had been prepared to send Sherlock off to his death, but Sherlock had been ahead of him on that score. Had they not boarded the plane he was sure there would have been a lethal dose of heroin injected into Sherlock’s veins before the plane landed in Russia.

 _Damn him,_ Mycroft thought. He could have found a way to save his brother without Moriarty’s interference but his brother had no faith in him. This was how fractured they were, how broken, that Sherlock would rather off himself with drugs than give Mycroft another chance to fix things.

But, he supposed, that was the way they were. They had been this way ever since their sister had had her rampage and changed the dynamics.

He paused in watching the old family movies, the few things salvaged from the fire at Musgrave Hall, of happier times. Of his parents showing love for their children and not merely expecting obedience. Of smiles and laughter instead of silence and secrets. Of the whole family, together, pleased to _be_ together.

What a fantasy it had been.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist and saw it was near the time he had planned to pay an unexpected visit to his brother. By now Dr. Hooper would have deemed him through the withdrawal and in good enough mental health to be left under Mrs. Hudson’s watch. Mycroft didn’t necessarily agree but he wouldn’t dare argue with Dr. Hooper over matters regarding Sherlock. That was a lesson he had learned years ago and did not care to repeat.

But no, Sherlock should be alone by now, and that meant time for a talk. The matter of Magnussen had been settled to the best of his ability.

Now it was time to deal with the matter of the overdose.

This was a conversation he dreaded, but it had to be had. He had an inkling of where the footage from Moriarty had come from, and he needed to prepare his brother. He had the feeling family secrets, and perhaps more than that, would come to light and he didn’t want Sherlock unprepared.

Because he was afraid, next time, he would be too late.


	2. Chapter 2

There were strains of music coming from the sitting room at 221B Baker Street, music he never would have imagined Sherlock listening to in a million years. He really had changed if _this_ was what soothed his mind musically, though maybe it wasn’t a change. Maybe a part of Sherlock was not so detached from popular culture as he appeared to be. With John’s influence, and later Molly and Mary, that could explain it. The music masked the sound of him opening the door and he paused in the foyer to listen as the song ended and then began again, as Sherlock apparently had it on repeat.

_Oh, oh, oh_   
_Oh, oh_   
_Oh, oh, oh_   
_Oh, oh_

_I've been down in the dirt, lost for so long_   
_And pushed around, beaten down_   
_Got nothing left to lose, all hope is gone_   
_Got buried deep underground_

_Oh, can you see me?_   
_Oh, can you hear me?_

An apropos beginning, given the circumstances. Yes, he supposed this song would suit Sherlock’s mood well if he did indeed feel as though his actions against Magnussen had left him with nothing to lose, had left him with no hope. A bitter thought entered his mind that Sherlock had always been ridiculously optimistic even when his veneer of sociopathic tendencies had taken over. It was only a veneer, after all, allowing him to tell all and sundry he was a high-functioning sociopath. But he had always been optimistic; after all, with his brain, he had decided to put it towards exposing the darkest secrets people harbored and kept doing so no matter how much it weighed on him.

But no, he himself had probably ground out Sherlock’s hope that there would be a good ending in...what? In his effort to distance himself from his brother more to spare his pain? Or spare Sherlock’s pain? No, he had said it was a one-way trip often enough that Sherlock had taken him at his word, whatever his intentions were, and the fact he was standing in his brother’s home unsure of what his motives were left him with a feeling perhaps this visit should be delayed.

_Can you hear me screaming for you?_   
_I'm afraid I'm gonna die down here_   
_I can't save, I can't save myself_   
_Get me out, get me out of Hell_   
_I'm suffocating waiting for you_   
_Cause the angels don't fly down here_   
_I need you because no one else_   
_Can get me out, get me out of Hell?_

If Sherlock had screamed for help from anyone, it certainly hadn’t been him. Perhaps it had been to whoever smuggled him the heroin; Mycroft knew his brother would never willingly ask him for help in anything, but especially an attempt to administer a lethal overdose to escape a more painful and yet still certain death.

 _You always make it a barter,_ the nasty voice inside his head said. _You only do favours for a favour in return. What kind of brother are you? Couldn’t you have at least just once given him something to show you cared? A favour with no expectation of being repaid?_ No, the resigned side of himself answered the nasty voice. That was their relationship, these were the roles they had been cast into long ago, after horrific events and it had all been done without Sherlock’s full knowledge.

Maybe he should have imported that wisdom earlier, damn his Uncle Rudy. Then maybe things would be different.

Maybe he needed his own savior to drag him out of the personal Hell he had been cast into as a child.

_I can't trust anyone, all that I got_   
_Is another scarred, broken heart_   
_I've been stabbed in the back, the bleeding won't stop_   
_Just another cut in the dark_

_Oh, can you see me?_   
_Oh, can you hear me?_

_Can you hear me screaming for you?_   
_I'm afraid I'm gonna die down here_   
_I can't save, I can't save myself_   
_Get me out, get me out of Hell_   
_I'm suffocating waiting for you_   
_Cause the angels don't fly down here_   
_I need you because no one else_   
_Can get me out, get me out of Hell?_

The music suddenly switched off, leaving the foyer in silence until Sherlock spoke, his tone annoyed. “Oh do come upstairs and stop eavesdropping on my choice in music.”

Mycroft straightened his back and then fixed his tie before heading up the steps. When he got to the top of the landing and looked into the sitting room where he saw Sherlock in a grey T-shirt and trackies with his plaid dressing gown wrapped tightly around his midsection. He probably still had the chills, one of the unfortunate side effects of Sherlock’s withdrawal that Mycroft was quite accustomed to. The most surprising thing was the fluffy brown bear shaped slippers he wore. He quirked an eyebrow. “Interesting footwear.”

“A practical joke gift from Molly for my last birthday,” he said in a huff. “They’re warmer than my usual ones.”

“You used to have a pair when you were young,” he said quietly. Sherlock’s look softened for just a moment. “They were black, I believe. And the bear had a red bow tie.”

“I don’t remember that,” Sherlock said quietly, his tone still annoyed but less so. “My childhood is a series of fuzzy instances.”

Mycroft thought for a moment. “Perhaps I can change that,” he said. “Tomorrow, would you come have dinner with me? I have things that might interest you.”

Sherlock gave him a speculative look. “No tricks? You won’t have Anderson there ready to administer a piss test?”

“No tricks, Sherlock. Just join me for supper and I’ll explain...things.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, saying nothing, and then nodded. “Very well. What time?”

“Six,” he said. “I’ll have your favourites from Angelo’s delivered for you.”

“But not you?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Perhaps me too. Just this once.” He nodded towards Sherlock and then turned. Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow night could rewrite their relationship, or at least start to, and they could help each other out of their own private Hells.

He could only hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner itself was tense the next evening. Sherlock was on the defensive almost immediately upon entering Mycroft’s home, as though he didn’t trust his brother. Perhaps that was understandable; for so long now, Mycroft had never extended an invitation for a meal without an ulterior motive. He was as patient as he could be, though at times it was stretched to its breaking point, but he knew the evening had to go well if there was any hope of rectifying past mistakes and preventing future ones.

Finally, the meal was done and Sherlock was directed to go to the study while Mycroft gathered the other few things that revealed they had a sister. The homemade films would be a start, but there were other things. He would do this as gently as he could, but he wanted to make sure that there was support for Sherlock if he needed it, and he called both John and Molly to make sure they would be available this evening for Sherlock, should he need either of them.

It could be a danger night. One of the worst.

Or..it could be something else.

Sherlock was jittery, making quite obvious he was still detoxing even though the drugs had mostly run their course throughout his system. His head snapped up as Mycroft entered the room and he gestured to the camera set-up. “What is all of this for?”

“Family films,” Mycroft said. “But first, we need to talk.”

“I’m sober,” Sherlock said, glaring. “I’m going to make sure the bloody list is updated should this ever happen again, which I have doubt it will. And I will be _fine_ so there’s no need to reminisce about the ‘good old days.’”

“Oh, come off it,” Mycroft snapped, and Sherlock blinked. “The show you put on for John and Mary on the plane was just that. A show. And you performed very well. But there are things you _need_ to know, things you have no earthly idea about, and I’m _trying_ to be the big brother I should have been all along if you’ll give me a chance.” He sighed, deflating in on himself. “You don’t need to impress anyone, Sherlock. You just need to listen, and to...talk. If you feel the need. A normal conversation about abnormal things.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long beat, and then he spoke. “What do you need to tell me, Mycroft?” he asked, his voice softer and slightly curious.

Mycroft took a seat next to Sherlock and handed her the items he had. A photo album, loose pictures, a birth certificate, police reports on the fire and newspaper clippings about the disappearance of Victor Trevor. “Sherlock, we have a sister. The youngest of the three of us. Her name is Eurus. And she has done horrible things.”

Sherlock looked down at the items and then picked up a picture, one of the few ever taken of Sherlock and his childhood friend Victor. “Not a brother?” he asked, looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft shook his head. “The boy in the picture with you is Victor Trevor. You would play Blackbeard to his...Redbeard.”

Sherlock let it sink in. “There was never a dog?”

“Not one named Redbeard. I had one named Mortimer who died in a fire. A fire that Eurus set to try and murder us all. After she murdered your friend Victor.” He paused. “I apologize for simply dropping it on you this way, but...”

“No, no,” Sherlock said, his voice even quieter than before. “No, I doubt there was a way to soften the blow much more.” He traced a side of the picture. If Mycroft remembered correctly, it was Victor who his finger glided over. “Is our sister still alive?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Locked away for the safety of the world. Our Uncle Rudy was responsible for it. I have overseen her incarceration since I entered government service. She has helped the British government with challenging cases and gets one present a year in exchange for Christmas. Last year, her gift was fifteen minutes with James Moriarty. And I believe she had seen him more often. She is...unhinged, and dangerous, and mesmerizing. She can convince anyone to do anything.” He paused. “Perhaps even able to convince someone to stage a pre-planned resurrection when he eventually gives into his suicidal thoughts.”

“You think she’s behind the video,” Sherlock said slowly.

“Yes.”

Sherlock lapsed back into silence as he began to flip through the loose photos. Mycroft waited, expecting a rebuke or an exclamation of anger of some sort. When he finally spoke his words surprised Mycroft. “You were protecting me,” he said.

“Its what I have tried to do, and failed at, for most of your life.” He gestured to the films. “There were, once upon a time, happier days. I have proof if you would like to see it?”

“I think I would,” Sherlock said, setting aside the things on his lap. Though it had not gone how he expected, it could have gone _much_ worse, Mycroft thought to himself as he began setting up one of the films in the projector. It could have gone _so_ much more worse…


End file.
